


not the darkest timeline

by 1001cranes



Series: Nemo - Phoenix Fields [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, The Medium Place, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: They're had better but certainly they've had worse.





	not the darkest timeline

**Author's Note:**

> First of a series of fics regarding my beautiful disaster boy [Nemo](https://thephoenixfields.tumblr.com/tagged/nemo/chrono), from one of my current campaigns. Can possibly be read as Original Fic, if you're so interested.

In Soraya, Nemo rarely strays from his daily routine.

He wakes up late in the morning - middling late to dreadfully late, depending on who you might ask, thank you Sariel - once the morning sun comes into the room and drapes itself across his face. He washes and shaves and dresses, and sometimes he makes up the bed but mostly he doesn't. Breakfast is oatmeal or a bit of toasted bread with cheese, and sometimes an apple if he can be bothered to go into the cellar and fetch one. The kitchen is small, but cozy and well-used, and the crackle of the fire and the hiss of the kettle offset the dull bustle of the city just outside his doorstep.

He sometimes spends breakfast marveling at how Soraya has grown. The once shuttered city had become a place of new beginnings not only for its queen but for its people, and anyone who looks to find refuge there. The horrors once visited upon it vanquished, a tentative friendship with the Slayer’s Take née Thieves’ Pocket blossoming, and a royal temple reconsecrated in the Raven Queen’s name.

Sometimes Nemo thinks of his old companions -- of Julian and Sariel in Alanar, Rowan sailing off gods know where when she’s not with Raphael, Fen back in her little cottage in the Witchcombe. He thinks of Gaer out on his own adventures with Ailis, of Sabina and Aidan and Dania and Pilar and even Agrona, who frightens him only a little less in her old age.

And sometimes he spends breakfast reading books he has borrowed from various libraries, and not returned.

Nemo always leaves the house just before noon, when the sun is high and a man without a shadow could hardly be remarked upon. The walk itself is swift, and Nemo's footsteps sure. The path to the Raven Queen’s Temple is now as well known to him as any has ever been -- he could do it in his sleep or half dead or well and truly blind. His feet have brought him here in dreams and he can only blame the Black-Eyed Lady for some of them.  

The temple itself is much more grand these days. The Raven Queen is worshipped by Queen Esther, and therefore much of the Small Council, and therefore many of the noble houses, and so on and so on. There are black marble statues, and dark granite floors with white inlay, and silver everywhere there is a bowl or candelabra or even a door handle. There are more clerics and paladins in Her service, more faithful in Her congregation, more pilgrims to seek Her presence. Nemo doubts She resides _in_ Soraya, as some whisper, but it is a favored place, to be sure.

Today Nemo does catch a look or two as he walks through the foyer; it happens sometimes. He knows how odd he appears - an eyeless man who must be blind yet does not quite seem to be. He wears dark and dusty clothing, travel ready, yet the rings on his fingers are not only expensive but magical, if you have an eye for such things. But in the end it is a temple, and all are welcome here, and none try to stop him as he heads back towards the blood pool.

Besides the humble kitchen, the pool is perhaps the one part of the temple left relatively unchanged -- or if it has changed, who would notice anything besides the _pool of blood_ anyway? Perhaps the tiles that line it are more expensive. Either way, this is a day where Lysander sits beside it as he so often does, head bowed in concentration. Perhaps She is speaking to him. Perhaps Esther has asked for his help once more. Perhaps one of the temple foundlings has short-shifted one of the lesser clerics’ beds again, who is to say.

“Hello,” Nemo says. “Good morning. Well. Afternoon?”

“Certainly one of the two,” Lysander says agreeably. He lifts his head, face appearing in the dim lighting like a distant star from behind a cloud, and Nemo’s breath catches in the way it does every single time he sees Lysander again.

Lysander is as beautiful as the first day Nemo met him - moreso, if Nemo’s honest with himself. True, it's been a number of years since they first met. There is silver shot through Lysander’s hair, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and a deep set furrow in his brow that broadcasts how often and how deeply he worries. Anyone who knew Nemo the least bit knew he was easy for a pretty face, but Lysander’s is dear to Nemo now. Known. Beloved. It makes all the difference. It makes something in Nemo's chest settle at the very sight of him.

“You look troubled,” Nemo says. He sits down onto the floor, knees bent up so he can wrap his arms around them. Next to Lysander but not so near the blood pool. “Bad day?”

“I’ve had better,” Lysander sighs, but it is only a moment before he smiles wanly. “But I’ve had worse as well.”

“I’m sure we all have.” Oh, Nemo’s fingers itch to touch him. “Most bad days aren’t so bad, compared to the worse ones.”

There is a moment where neither speaks. Where no one speaks. The temple has fallen into one of those silences that somehow happen naturally, now and again, but feel so crystal clear and so hard to break.

“I used to know someone,” Lysander says, almost absently, almost to himself, as if Nemo were not there at all. “I used to know someone who talked like you.”

It’s of no use to ask who it was, to have Lysander try and chase the thought. It’s as if there’s a word on the tip of his tongue he can’t quite remember, and no amount of questions or prompting will result in anything other than confusion or irritation. Lysander never remembers. He can’t. No one can.

“Maybe we grew up in the same place,” Nemo says instead, as though Lysander's brow has not furrowed in thought once more. “You’re from around here yourself, I’d say.”

The deflection is a kindness for both of them, really.

Lysander’s face clears almost instantly. “Close enough, yes,” and Nemo sits back a little. Perhaps Lysander will tell him of his childhood, or perhaps he will ask what brings a man like Nemo to the temple. Perhaps he will be too busy to talk much today, and Nemo will spend the rest of the day walking through the market, or drinking in a tavern.

It isn’t all bad. Certainly not. It isn’t a _terrible_ thing, to look on the face of the man you love each day. To converse with him. To sit by his side. Nemo even sees the others, sometimes, when they visit the city.

No, no - Nemo has seen punishment far greater than this, and reward far less.

He’s content.


End file.
